


I Don't Need to Know Your Name

by MiraMira



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Assassination Plot(s), Brief Leliana (Dragon Age), Drinking, Family Issues, Identity Reveal, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: All Dorian knows about the elven stranger who's just wandered into the run-down inn he's currently calling home is that he's Antivan, attractive, and also of interest to the Minrathous guard.  Dorian doesn't care.  Mostly.





	I Don't Need to Know Your Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustJasper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/gifts).



> Also contains pretend non-sexual master/slave dynamics.

Dorian stares dejectedly into the dwindling contents of his glass. If there is one lesson the past few weeks since fleeing the prison his father deemed an acceptable excuse for a school have taught him, it is that drinking is far less enjoyable when one has to worry about where the money to purchase future drinks will come from. Especially when the inevitable follow-up questions regarding money for food, shelter, and other necessities only make drinking more appealing. The watered-down swill on offer at this Minrathous back-alley excuse for an inn isn’t helping matters.

He hasn’t lost sight of the advantages to trading security for freedom, though. The stranger who has just entered the establishment and taken up a spot by the bar, for instance, would be decidedly out of place in Dorian’s usual social circles. A long cloak conceals most of the man’s features, but Dorian can make out just enough hints of silver-blond hair, Dalish tattoos, and a lithe, lean physique to be intrigued.

The stranger catches his eye, and for an instant, Dorian dares to hope his interest is reciprocated. But the other man turns away with a regretful smile. Or possibly a patronizing one; Dorian’s endured more than his fair share of variations on “go home, boy” since arriving in this part of the city, some of them kinder than others. He’s still trying to learn not to take the rejections personally.

In this particular case, that task becomes far easier a second later when a pair of guards burst through the door and flank the stranger. “Come along quietly, you,” says the more senior-looking of the pair, grabbing the man roughly by the shoulder.

Before he can think better of it - or at all - Dorian is on his feet. “Florus!” he shouts.

Thank the Maker, the stranger turns to stare at him. So do the guards, and the rest of the inn. He ignores them as he strides forward and places a hand on the stranger’s neck, attempting to strike the proper balance between proprietary and reassuring. “Oh, dear. What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

Whatever else he might be, the stranger is quick on the uptake. “Apologies, master,” he murmurs in a poorly-concealed Antivan accent that sends a shiver up Dorian’s spine: half desire, half fear that its exoticism will also attract the guards’ notice.

This proves an unnecessary concern, as the senior guard turns his full attention to him. “An elf matching this one’s description was spotted fleeing the scene of a fatal assault. We need to bring him in for questioning.”

Dorian lets out a disbelieving hoot. “Florus? An assassin? I assure you, the only thing he’s capable of murdering is my collection of fine liquors. So much for my family’s original plans to use him as a taster.”

Alas, he appears to have laid on the conviviality a touch too thick for the younger guard, who eyes him with suspicion. “Don’t suppose you’ve got his papers on you?”

He summons every last ounce of magisterial arrogance he possesses, from his haughty stance to the imperial arch of his eyebrow. “Surely you’re not casting aspersions on the honor of House Pavus.”

“Pavus, eh?” the younger guard sneers, unexpectedly. “I’ve heard that name. Didn’t think you had much honor left to besmirch.”

 _Forgive me_ , Dorian thinks in vain as he sets aside his own outrage, and forges ahead with the role in which he has cast himself. “I promise you, I am not fallen so low as to stick my neck out for any passing knife-ear,” he spits out before the words can stick in his throat, giving ‘Florus’ as gentle a shove forward as he can while still making the gesture convincing. Hopefully the man’s stumble is evidence he is still willing to play along, and not an actual injury. “Truth be told, this one’s not worth a fight, either. Take him, if you insist. But my father will expect an explanation for having his property confiscated. Or at least appropriate compensation.”

An eternity seems to pass as the guards weigh this offer. Finally, the senior one shakes his head. “Suppose we’d best keep looking, then. Have a good evening.” He shoots them both a final, lingering glower as he and his colleague withdraw. “Stay out of trouble.”

As the clanking of the guards’ armor fades from earshot and the usual bar chatter resumes around them, the stranger executes a courtly bow. “You have my deepest thanks,” he says.

“I was hoping for a more substantial reward than that,” says Dorian. Then he realizes he may just have confirmed every fear the stranger might be harboring as to how much of the magister posturing is an act, and curses himself. “I mean...I don’t...Oh, _venhedis_. Join me for a drink? Please?”

The stranger appears more amused than offended, but still tilts his head toward the door. “I should be off before they return.”

“You realize it’s just as likely they’re waiting outside?” Dorian points out.

Now it is the stranger’s turn to look embarrassed. He heaves a long sigh of surrender, then flashes a wicked smile. “Very well. One drink. But I expect you to live up to your talk of fine liquor, young Master Pavus.”

“I’ll do my best,” Dorian promises, trying not to think of the dent this will make in his shrinking pile of coin. He chances a comradely arm around the man’s shoulders, and is heartened when he does not pull away. “I beg you, though: call me Dorian.”

 

-

“So what exactly do I call you?” Dorian asks abruptly, three bottles of passable wine, a few glasses of unexpectedly good brandy, and one change of location later. He’s glad he suggested retiring to his room after the innkeeper threatened to call the guard back somewhere around the third chorus of ‘A Mage’s Staff Has a Knob on the End.’ The dingy sliver of attic is still far below the standards his breeding has trained him to expect, but with his newfound friend sitting opposite him on the barely large enough bed, cloak discarded on the dusty floor, telling stories of his travels as intriguing for what they leave out as what they include, it almost feels welcoming.

The other man raises an eyebrow. “I thought we had settled on Florus.”

“I _loathe_ the name Florus,” says Dorian with a groan. “It belonged to one of my mother’s cats. What little healing magic I possess, I learned from patching up the wounds it inflicted on me whenever our paths crossed. I suppose I should be grateful, but oh, how I celebrated when it finally let its miserable, crotchety grip on life go at the age of twenty-three.”

“I see,” says the man, just in time to stop Dorian from launching into a prolonged rant on the feline Florus’s other misdeeds. “Hmm. If you are not a fan of cats, then...Corvus, perhaps.”

“I like cats just fine,” Dorian insists. “That thing was an abomination. I’d have proven it, if I could’ve gotten anywhere near it without being shredded to ribbons.” Then the second half of the conversation catches up with him. “Wait. Corvus. As in...crow?”

‘Corvus’ smiles enigmatically. “I do know some Tevene. _Avanna, vitae benefaria, licet mihi ad latrinam..._ ”

“And you’re from Antiva,” Dorian interrupts.

The smile is growing a bit strained, though Corvus’s voice remains blithe as ever. “First a drink, then a name, now a life story. You are most demanding, Master Pavus.”

“Dorian, damn you.” He lets the line of inquiry go with a sigh as he falls back onto the bed. After all, questions about his companion’s past will inevitably lead to a request for reciprocation, and he doesn’t see the need to spoil a pleasant evening with reminders of how he got here. “Just tell me: did you kill...whoever they thought you killed?”

From where he is lying, he can’t quite see Corvus’s expression, which may be for the best. “It is a bit late to be concerned with that, no?”

“I’m not concerned; I’m curious.” A sudden thought prompts him to shift to a less-exposed position. “Unless this has all been an elaborate setup to lure me into private and then stab me to death.”

“Whatever luring has occurred tonight has not been my doing,” Corvus chuckles. “Which is a trifle disconcerting, I admit, but nothing to kill over.”

“Oh. Well, good.” Again, a moment passes before the full import of the conversation hits him. He sits back up and swallows. “Do you mind? The luring, I mean?”

The other man inches closer, laying his hand on Dorian’s. His eyes are the color of warm honey - and surprisingly sad. “You realize I will be gone by morning.”

“I know.” The words slip out before he can stop them, far more bitter than intended. “At least you’re honest about it.”

Corvus jerks back as though wounded. “Dorian…”

 _Now_ he decides to use the name. “Don’t,” Dorian snaps, turning away. “I’m not a child. I understand this isn’t the beginning of some grand love affair.” He looks Corvus in the eye again, defiant. “And if one night is all I have, I’d rather make the most of it than wonder what might have been.”

The sorrow in Corvus’s expression softens, and his hand moves up to caress Dorian’s cheek. “Then we understand each other perfectly.”

As their lips connect, any lingering traces of regret on Dorian’s part melt away. It isn’t just Corvus’s evident expertise, or his own desire. This is what it is like to be kissed by a man who wants him, and feels no shame in wanting him. As long as he lives, he hopes he never forgets the feeling.

“So tell me,” Corvus asks, as Dorian begins fumbling at his tunic fastenings, “do you wish to give or receive?”

Dorian pulls back, startled. His other partners have assumed that since he was most eager for the encounter, he naturally belonged on the bottom. Until now, he hasn’t thought to question them. “You don’t have a preference?”

“None so pronounced that I would not rather see you pleased. And morning is still hours away. There is time to...experiment.”

Dorian tugs at the buttons more forcefully, pinning Corvus against the mattress in the process. “Well, in that case, there are a few things I’d like to try…”

 

-

The first rays of dawn have already begun to illuminate the room by the time Dorian’s imagination and stamina are exhausted. They lie together with hands clasped, eyes darting from the growing patches of light to each other, and back again.

Dorian speaks first: “Do you need a distraction to sneak downstairs, or…?”

“The window should suffice.” Corvus stares at him a moment, then gives him a last, lingering kiss at the corner of his mouth. “For what it is worth, Dorian Pavus, you are a very difficult man to leave.”

 _Then don’t_ , Dorian wants to say. But that wasn’t the agreement. And even in his half-dazed state, he has to admit a visit from the Minrathous guard would be a most unsatisfactory end to the whole adventure.

He turns toward the wall and closes his eyes as Corvus finishes dressing. By the time he can bring himself to look again, the only remaining traces of last night’s company are the empty bottles still scattered about the floor, and the breeze wafting through the open window.

 

~

If there’s one thing the Inquisition has taught Dorian, it’s that the only thing better for loosening people’s inhibitions than alcohol is a game of Wicked Grace. At the moment, Leliana, who part of him is still afraid to look in the eye for fear she will interpret it as a hostile act and set her agents against him, is regaling the assembled players with an account of the time her companions Zevran and Oghren attempted to save King Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden from certain doom by pretending to be circus performers.

“And then Zevran says, ‘Look at us! Are your eyes failing? We are twins! Not identical, of course, but twins nonetheless.’”

Dorian freezes. The impression is terrible, but something in Leliana’s phrasing and mannerisms transports him back to that tiny, run-down room in Minrathous, as Corvus whispers filthy, depraved, glorious suggestions into his ear.

He keeps the jumble of emotions roiling through him in check until the game is over, then approaches Leliana. “Your friend Zevran. Does he have a tattoo on his cheek? Like this?” He traces the familiar lines along the curve of his own face.

Leliana blinks for a second, then smirks knowingly. “Ah. You’ve met.”

“Apparently.” Dorian doesn’t know who he’s angrier with: Corvus - no, _Zevran_ \- or himself. Ever since he first heard the tale of the Fifth Blight, he’s gorged himself on stories of the Hero of Ferelden and her brave companions. To have been so intimately acquainted with one, and never realized…

But then, he can’t think what part of the night he would have wanted to trade for more talk. Besides, maybe it doesn’t have to be a choice. “Do you...are you still in touch with him?”

She sighs. “Zevran’s a difficult man to get hold of if he doesn’t wish to be found. He’s rather like the Warden in that.” A shadow crosses her face, followed by a gentle smile. “But he also has a habit of showing up where and when you least expect him.”

 

~

Years have passed since Dorian awoke expecting someone else in his bedchamber, save the occasional servant rousing him with news of a failed assassination plan. And even the last of those was over eighteen months ago. So he is nearly as shocked to open his eyes and find anyone standing over him, as he is when he realizes to whom the equally shocked face staring back at him belongs. The silver-blond hair has gone completely silver, and the _vallaslin_ curves are mirrored by more natural grooves, but he would know those amber eyes anywhere.

Besides, if he still possessed any lingering doubts regarding the interloper’s identity, they would be erased in the next moment by the man’s elegant bow. “Master Pavus. Or Magister, rather. My apologies.”

Thankfully, somewhere in the confusion, he’s retained the presence of mind to grab the staff he keeps by his bedside. He prays he doesn’t have to use it. “The legendary Zevran Arainai. Or do you still prefer Corvus?”

His visitor appears unruffled at this unmasking. “Zevran will do.”

“Then it’s Dorian, as you damn well know.” He still hasn’t released his grip on his staff. “Unless you are still here to kill me, in which case I’d like to keep the honor of my title while I still have it.”

Zevran’s calm demeanor dissolves into irritation as he tosses aside his knives and begins pacing the floor. “I did not, in fact, damn well know. Had I been provided the target’s name, I would have refused the job.”

“And now?”

“I will be refunding the advance payment, of course.” He pauses long enough for Dorian to catch the spark of anger in his eyes. “In person.”

“Or,” Dorian suggests, the idea taking shape as he speaks, “I could ask Divine Victoria to recommend a courier, and we could use the time to...renew old acquaintances?”

Zevran pauses again, this time flashing a grin. “As I find myself unexpectedly in Minrathous without employment, this seems a fine plan.” He bows again, less formally. “Do give Leliana my best.”

Dorian sets his staff aside at last, with a smile of his own. “That can wait. Your former client won’t be expecting any news from you at least until morning, will they?”

“True.” Zevran’s grin widens. “And your bed appears far more comfortable than the last one we shared.”

“Oh, it is.” He pats the spot beside him. “Would you like to see?”

It’s still not the start of a grand love affair. Probably. But if he’s lucky, it could be the beginning of a very, very mutually beneficial friendship. And, Dorian thinks, as he pulls Zevran down and sets about discovering whether the kissing is as good as he remembers, he intends to make the most of it.


End file.
